Car Ride with My Dad

When driving, my dad would tell
me tales. Of how quiet
the bottom of a pool is.
Of how tiny fingers press,
cooling temples and skin
as swirling currents pick and toss
hair about.
The air would curve, repelled
from the hot car surface,
glaringly bright.
My dad sometimes continued,
noting how peaceful
an abandoned concert hall,
full of space and majesty, was.
How sometimes he got up,
sat on the barren stage, foot clacking
in a steady beat before he would stand,
arms outstretched before the empty
stands.
My dad never did act on a stage,
never was blinded by stars in tubes
or deafened by rolling waves of thunder.

I remember how dad’s hand would always tighten up,
afraid the wheel would wrench right.
He had crashed ages ago, ruining
his Chevy against a road sign.

He would always get quiet after a while,
letting the buzz of the radio ramble
with the silence. I never minded,
content to let the sun warm
my right side.
Sometimes it’s peaceful to quietly ride.

I think I should have shattered that silence
sometimes.
I should have asked why the quiet
corners attracted my dad’s mind.
I should have asked why
he still thought he would veer
off the road, to the right.
I should have tested the bottom
of a pool, bubbles leaving
my nose and throat until
water filled and took their place,
and I’m reminded how quiet
it is at the bottom of a pool.

—Anthony Lograsso attends/attended MSU. His age will vary based on when you read this. Poetry remains a huge passion of his, and he hopes he will find a job one day. He also broke his leg once, a very traumatic event. Besides that, Anthony regularly admits he has a relatively normal life, though he is perfectly content with that.

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